He would always recall going up the gangplank, carrying his kitbag and pausing momentarily on that first day. His eyes had lighted on a brass plaque on the wall ahead of him – the words on it: FEAR GOD. HONOUR THE KING. A cold shiver had run through him and settled in his heart, underscoring his patriotism and his desire to succeed. He had both ambition and drive, and fully intended to make the Royal Navy his career. He worked hard, and had focus, concentration and determination. These three characteristics had pushed him up the ladder at a fairly rapid speed.

He not only drew pleasure from his regime on a daily basis but also appreciated the opportunities of a full education that were offered to him. He concentrated on his reading and writing, studied books on history and geography, and, of course, being clever, he soon improved his manners and way of speaking by observing the way the officers handled themselves. Genial, outgoing and pleasant, he made friends of his mates quite easily, and exercise through heavy work and good solid food kept him strong and in good shape. Patrick had become a highly rated naval man, which pleased him.

The only reason he had left it all behind was Eileen, and her need to have him by her side. Although it saddened him, he had never resented her for changing his life. He was too big a man for that and, after all, it had been his own decision in the end.

Across the landing, in the small bedroom, its occupant was also unable to sleep. Blackie was awake because of his great excitement about being here with his uncle at last, and because of the kind of comfort he was surrounded by. He couldn’t get over it, simple as it was.

He had never been in a bed before. When his parents had been alive, he had always slept on a mattress on the floor in a corner, covered by an old blanket. He and his siblings shared two mattresses in a tiny bedroom. Afterwards, he and Michael had done the same in his cousins’ two-room cottage; Siobhan had slept on an old cot in the main room.

Now, here he was, tucked up in a bed with a downy pillow, a mattress that seemed to cradle him, and a soft white sheet. He smoothed his hand over it once again. It felt like silk, but he knew it was cotton, often washed, and yet it was so white it was the colour of fresh snow.

On top of the sheet was a large red tartan blanket, which Aunt Eileen had folded in half earlier, explaining, ‘Doing this makes it feel like two blankets, and it’s much warmer.’